"Five minutes after I rejected the son of the most feared man in the room in front of two hundred stunned guests, his father cornered me inside a private study and asked the one question I had spent three years avoiding. When I finally confessed why, the son walked in with blood on his hand and a devastating realization."

It was old-money quiet.

When Vincent’s black town car pulled into the gravel courtyard around midnight, the rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a heavy, mist-shrouded fog that clung to the stone walls.

I stepped out of the vehicle, wrapping my wool coat tighter around myself, looking up at the shuttered windows. “Is this where you stash the ledgers you don't want the feds to find?”

“This is where I stash things I can't afford to lose,” Vincent corrected quietly, grabbing a small leather overnight bag from the trunk.

We walked up the stone steps together. Vincent unlocked the heavy oak door with an old-fashioned brass key, pushing it open to reveal a warm, dimly lit interior filled with dark wood furniture, a massive stone fireplace, and shelves packed with hundreds of dog-eared leather-bound books. It smelled of old paper, cedarwood, and a faint hint of woodsmoke.

It didn't feel like a prison; it felt like a sanctuary.

I dropped my bag near the entryway and walked over to the stone hearth, warming my hands against the residual heat from an unlit fire. Vincent set the bag down and walked over to a small cabinet in the corner, pulling out a crystal decanter and two heavy-bottomed glasses.

“Scotch?” he asked, his back to me.

“Only if it’s old enough to vote,” I replied softly.

A faint huff of laughter escaped him. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass, walked over, and handed one to me. His fingers brushed mine—a brief, electric contact that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

We stood in silence for a moment, sipping the scotch, listening to the quiet drip of water falling from the oak trees outside.

“Marcus found the leak,” Vincent finally said, staring down into his glass.

My heart tightened. “Who was it?”

“One of the regional shipping coordinators. He was selling port arrival schedules to the Marcone syndicate—our biggest rivals across the river,” Vincent explained, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Marcus handled it.”

“Handled it how?”

Vincent looked up, meeting my eyes with a dark, unapologetic stare. “He won't be working for us anymore, Claire. Or anyone else.”

I didn't flinch. In my line of work, I knew the violent mechanics of the underworld machinery. But hearing Vincent talk about bloodshed so casually—knowing he was capable of absolute, merciless destruction—made the reality of who he was crash over me like a cold wave.

“Does that frighten you?” he asked quietly, reading the micro-expression on my face with terrifying accuracy.

“No,” I whispered, taking a slow sip of the scotch. “What frightens me is that I understand why you have to do it.”

Vincent set his glass down on the mantelpiece, closed the distance between us, and reached out. His large hands cupped the sides of my face, his thumbs gently stroking my cheekbones. The warmth of his skin was an anchor in the storm of the past forty-eight hours.

“You shouldn't understand,” he said, his voice dropping into a gravelly, intense murmur. “You should be running as far away from me as possible. I am not a safe man to love, Claire. My entire life is built on collateral damage.”

“I’m not looking for a safe man, Vincent,” I replied, my voice steady, my eyes locked onto his. “I spent my whole life looking for safety and ending up terrified. I want real. Even if it’s dangerous.”

A low, resonant groan escaped his throat. It was the sound of a man abandoning the last of his defenses.

Before I could draw another breath, Vincent leaned down and captured my lips with his.

The kiss wasn't gentle; it was fierce, hungry, and charged with three years of unspoken tension, suppressed glances, and professional restraint. His hands slid from my face down to my waist, pulling me hard against his chest as if he wanted to weld us together. My fingers tangled in the silver-threaded hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, letting the heat of him burn away every remaining doubt, every fear, and every rule we had ever written.

When we finally broke apart for air, our foreheads pressed together, both of us breathing heavily in the quiet room.